Ode to the Empire: Chronicles of Eldhjarta, #1

By Devon Van De Zandt

"This job is more than a dance with death; it's a fool's leap into the abyss where getting caught means the Covenant might flay me, salt my wounds, burn me at the stake, and do it all over again, all while chanting demoralizing hymns in a false tone." —Armand

In the tumultuous Empire of Eldhjarta, dark forces ravage the land, enemies mass at the borders, and the specter of civil war looms large. Amid this chaos, Armand, a daring young thief with a knack for charming trouble, seizes a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. His fateful heist, however, becomes complicated when he crosses paths with a mysterious woman, making his escape all the more challenging.
Meanwhile, two valiant Imperial Rangers are thrust into the midst of growing chaos, tasked with solving the theft. As their mission progresses, they must also confront their growing, yet forbidden, feelings for each other. Under the oppressive shadow of the Covenant of the Light, which threatens to punish any acts of forbidden love, emotions intensify.
Amidst peril and passion, a glimmer of hope inspires our heroes to navigate a labyrinth of desire, loyalty, and deceit. Will they satisfy their innermost yearnings without succumbing to the darkness as the empire teeters on the brink of chaos, spurred by a mysterious dark army?
Dive into a narrative where fierce battles blend with whimsical, unforgettable characters, creating a compelling romance set against the backdrop of an epic fantasy world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Devon Van De Zandt
• Release date: May 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9789527602003

Book preview

Ode to the Empire

Chronicles of Eldhjarta - Book I

Devon Van De Zandt

Copyright © [2024] by [Devon Van De Zandt]

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by [Timothy Stripe]

Illustrations by [Timothy Stripe]

[First] edition [2024]

Table of Contents

Map of the Empire

1.Dear Journal I

2.Prologue

3.Alyssum

4.Elandre

5.Dear Journal II

6.Andre

7.Margrave

8.Armand

9.Alyssum

10.Armand

11.Elandre

12.Dear Journal III

13.Alyssum

14.Margrave

15.Armand

16.Santos

17.Alyssum

18.Armand

19.Dear Journal IV

20.Elandre

21.Santos

22.Pilgrim

23.Iliandra

24.Armand

25.Dear Journal V

26.Santos

27.Armand

28.Alyssum

29.Nils

30.Santos

31.Elandre

32.Dear Journal VI

33.Andre

34.Alyssum

35.Armand

36.Ekranos

37.Elandre

38.Alyssum

39.Dear Journal VII

40.Santos

41.Andre

42.Armand

43.Alyssum

44.The Voice

45.Armand

46.Dear Journal VIII

47.Margrave

48.Alyssum

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Chapter 1

Dear Journal I

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On the day of your birth, the 14th of the ninth moon, in the year 1556. I write these words from Rhy’leoh, our great capital, amidst the towering edifices of the Empire of Eldhjarta.

This journal, a guardian of our family’s wisdom and history, is meant for you, Prince Luca Enron Procella. When you come of age and are ready, it shall be yours to add your own experiences and reflections.

Dearest Luca,

You stand as the heir to an ancient and noble legacy. My hope for you is twofold: that fortune favors your days, and that you come to lead our people with both wisdom and heart.

With all my affection,

Emperor Harmon Artois Procella of the Eldhjarta

Chapter 2

Prologue

On the third day of the first moon of 1612, in Northern Eldhjarta.

Garreth shuffled his boots through the desert sands, feeling the grainy intrusion that had somehow crept onto the cold, rugged stone ramparts of the Uriel outpost. The contrasting textures of sand and stone were unsettling underfoot, like a thin, treacherous veneer on the solid foundation.

The dust rose, swirling with the gusts of wind, creating tiny sand devils that disappeared as quickly as they formed. The sounds of the night were a cacophony to his ears, a symphony performed by the unseen critters who thrived in the desert’s frigid darkness.

The chilly wind teased Garreth’s bare neck, causing a cascade of unexpected shivers to dance along his spine. This God forsaken desert, he muttered under his breath, scorches by day and freezes by night. Adjusting his cloak snugly around him, not so much for warmth but to alleviate the prickling discomfort.

And that goddamn light, he sneered, gesturing towards the watchtower. Damn useless, just like a shy virgin’s blush. He sunk into his thoughts, memories of earlier temptation resurfacing with a bitter taste on his tongue.

He remembered visiting the outpost’s kitchen where he encountered her—the old matron whose presence exuded an intriguing allure. She was soft in all the right places; her apron hinted at her curvaceous figure, and her rounded hips swayed subtly under her conservative skirts. Her openness to engage with soldiers who dared to approach her intrigued him—'and oh, bold Garreth was,' at least in his thoughts.

His gaze had lingered on the enticing curves of her figure, imagining how they’d feel in his hands. He pictured himself tracing his fingers over her, eliciting a response while he savored her reaction. His mind painted vivid pictures of them together, exploring the possibilities.

Yet, here he was now, in the cold, watching as nothing happened, except for the occasional night owl hunting desert mice. He hadn’t even managed to utter a word to the matron.

Damn… I need to get laid, he mused, speaking into the darkness ahead.

Stifling a yawn, he gripped his spear tighter, the cold metal making his fingers tingle. His breaths turned to wispy vapors in the chill, reminding him of the countless tales he’d heard of the ghostly Deepmines. The mountain’s imposing silhouette lay on the horizon, a colossal shadow in the night.

This night shift is pointless, he complained aloud. Who would attack here, in the middle of the desert, guarded by two hundred of the empire’s finest men? The likelihood of bandits daring to face such odds seemed slim, and Garreth was well aware of it.

He watched the elite veterans gathered around the central bonfire inside the outpost. They had chosen this isolated assignment to avoid dying in battle at the end of their careers. Standing among them, Garreth felt out of place with his spear in hand, his inexperience painfully evident.

Garreth, my man, someone called out as they approached the guard post.

How’s it going, Jorren? Garreth greeted, joined by a fellow recruit, a towering figure from the Lowlands.

Well, still no damn fish in this forsaken place, Jorren said, his eyes twinkling.

Garreth smirked. Jorren hailed from a land known for its rich fisheries and the esteemed headquarters of the Order of the Paladin.

So, using this gig as a stepping stone to the Order? Garreth ribbed.

Absolutely. With my talents, I should be leading them, Jorren chuckled.

Garreth shifted his spear. Mighty as the Paladins are, General Kolostes could probably outmatch them.

Jorren’s eyes lit up. General Kolostes? he echoed, awe in his tone.

Yeah, saw him once in Lumiere, the old capital. The guy’s a living legend, Garreth whispered, reverence in his voice.

His deeds are legendary, in battle and… with the royals’ daughters, Jorren quipped, winking.

Garreth frowned. Don’t mix him up with that scoundrel regent from Lumiere.

Alright, peace, Jorren conceded, noting the shift in Garreth’s mood. Let’s drop generals and lords from this.

Garreth relaxed. Yeah, I like to think Kolostes is as noble as they say. Gotta believe in something, right?

For sure, man, Jorren agreed in a softer tone. And what about our matron here? Those curves, huh?

Garreth chuckled, about to detail his thoughts on the matron’s allure, when a strange, grating noise cut through their talk. It sounded like a thousand shovels scraping against gravel, growing louder, resonating off the ramparts.

Huh, what’s that? Garreth said, listening to the intense noise.

Could it be locusts? Jorren suggested, his brow creased in confusion. Unfamiliar with the desert, its noises, and nocturnal life, he was uncertain.

Garreth shook his head, adamant. I grew up on the edge of a desert. This ain’t no bug, Jorren. No desert animal I know makes that sound.

Jorren’s voice cracked with uncertainty, But what could it be then, Garreth? It doesn’t sound natural.

Garreth’s eyes narrowed, his voice lowering to a grave murmur, I don’t know, but I intend to find out.

The noise was growing, a nerve-wracking background to their puzzled expressions. Garreth decided. He grabbed a lantern.

Jorren protested immediately. Maybe we should sound the alarm. Call the veterans…

Garreth dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. I won’t have them laughing at me for getting spooked by bugs, if that’s even the cause.

But Garreth, let’s think about this… Jorren started.

Ignoring him, Garreth unlocked the reinforced door to step outside. He left the spear at the gate and picked up a sword. Carrying the lantern in his hand, he cast a faint circle of light in the enveloping darkness. His other hand instinctively tightened on the sword’s hilt.

Jorren, still in the doorway, muttered, Garreth?… you clodpole… under his breath before following him into the darkness.

The strange sounds began to fade as they delved deeper. Only the occasional scrape of stone and a sudden, heavy thud broke the silence, reminiscent of a battalion of soldiers stamping their feet in unison.

Garreth held his sword out ahead, his arm fully extended, feeling its weight and balance.

The metallic sound of Jorren drawing his sword filled the silence. He assumed a defensive stance. Garreth, do you see anything? he whispered, his voice trembling.

Leading the Order… man, Jorren, you suck at following, not even mention leading, Garreth joked, trying to ease the tension.

The silence grew denser, turning the previous noise into an unsettling stillness.

Garreth, let’s turn around— Jorren’s words halted as Garreth’s sword collided with something solid. Metal clanged against metal. They froze. Garreth shone his lantern on the object, his blood turning ice cold at the sight.

Before them was standing a towering figure, a giant shrouded in dark armor that barely caught the lantern’s feeble light. Garreth raised his sword, his voice trembling. Who goes there? This is an imperial outpost. State your business!

The figure remained still, an intimidating statue in the darkness. Garreth repeated his demand, his voice echoing in the night, and he could hear Jorren’s panicked breaths behind him.

Jorren was pulling at his shoulder, his voice quivering with fear. Let’s go, man, let’s go!

Imperial soldiers do not falter in their duty! Garreth’s voice was filled with a determination. He turned to Jorren, his eyes leaving the armored figure for the merest of moments. It was a moment too long.

He quickly turned his head, catching a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision before he felt a vice-like grip close around his head.

With fear-stricken eyes, Jorren could only watch in horror as Garreth’s skull was crushed with the same ease as a grape in the hand of a winemaker.

As Jorren turned to flee, terror choked his voice into a strangled cry. Behind him, the relentless thuds of pursuit echoed, each one a harbinger of doom. The wind lashed his face, carrying away his tears in its icy grip.

Blinded by panic, he crashed into a cactus. Its needles pierced his leather trousers, sending sharp pain coursing through his body. He stumbled up, the pain cutting through the fog of fear, offering a cruel clarity.

The dim light of the ramparts flickered in the distance. He lurched toward it, the light growing with each desperate step. Finally, the outpost’s dark gate loomed ahead. Gasping, he surged forward.

Then he slammed against something hard. The taste of blood and broken teeth filled his mouth. Scrambling to his feet, he froze.

Before him stood a monstrous figure. He had run straight into it. ‘Impossible. How did it get here before me?’ Ice-cold fear rooted him to the spot.

Then, the ground shook with more thunderous steps behind him. The realization hit him: ‘There’s more than one of these monsters.’

Panic swirled as the outpost’s alarms pierced the night. Commands shouted, weapons clanged—a frantic, futile preparation.

But horror mounted as the creatures charged, smashing through the outpost walls effortlessly. The elite guard’s battle cries turned to shrieks of terror and agony. The unstoppable onslaught decimated the empire’s finest.

Jorren’s focus snapped back to the towering figure as a crushing blow struck him. As darkness enveloped him, a bizarre final thought flickered: ‘Was that a polearm or a glaive?’

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Jorren’s senses flickered back into focus. Every inch of him was aching. He forced his eyes open, blinking away the crust of dried blood that blurred his vision. Relief washed over him as he realized he was still alive, but it was soon replaced with terror. A sudden jolt on his ankle signaled he was being dragged across the coarse desert sand like a sack of grain.

As his vision cleared, he saw one of the monstrous figures, unhurriedly dragging him along with several others, all apparently dead. To his horror, he discovered he was naked, as were the others. His gaze darted around, spotting more of these armored giants, each dragging the lifeless, stripped bodies of his fallen comrades.

One of the behemoths was hauling enormous sacks that clinked and clattered with every step. He could make out the iron hilt of a spear protruding from one. ‘What was going on? Why were they taking their armory along with the corpses?’

Though the rough dragging over the unforgiving desert terrain should have been agonizing, Jorren felt nothing. A numbing sensation cloaked his body, likely a consequence of the blow to his head. The ceaseless dragging stopped abruptly near a hole in the ground.

At its brink lay a slab of stone, faintly shimmering as if imbued with magic. The armored figure, undeterred by the precipice, leaped into the abyss, pulling Jorren with it. To his astonishment, they passed directly through the stone, plummeting into a vast, luminous cavern below.

In the cavern, Jorren and the other captives were discarded into a large metal cage with disregard. As the bodies of his fellow soldiers stacked upon him, his fading consciousness caught sight of a mage-like figure. The mage manipulated the shimmering stone above them, rendering it transparent. Through this window, Jorren glimpsed more giants, each disposing of sacks filled with metallic items into the hole.

The cage began to move, shaking violently. Jorren’s legs were unresponsive. Yet, summoning his strength, he managed to mobilize his arms. He wriggled and shoved, laboring under the weight of the corpses, his body drenched in sweat and his mouth uttering silent curses. The world outside the cage was a blur of walls and fleeting light stripes. The transport, reminiscent of a hissing metal serpent—’or was it a dragon?’—filled him with dread. Overcoming his instinct for self-preservation, he clawed his way to the open top of the cage. As the metallic behemoth emitted a slowing screech, Jorren whispered to himself, Now or never. With a determined heave, he climbed over the cage’s edge, freeing himself from the clutches of the subterranean terror.

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Meanwhile, on the surface, the last of the monstrous figures completed their sinister undertaking. The hole was meticulously sealed, leaving the ground appearing untouched. The only hint of the night’s horrors was the slightly disturbed sand, a subtle but haunting testament to the dread that had unfolded.

Chapter 3

Alyssum

On the seventh day of the first moon of 1612, in Northern Eldhjarta.

Imperial rangers scoured the ruins of Uriel Outpost, their movements meticulous among the desolation. The news of the outpost’s eerie silence had reached imperial officials just a few days after the incident, sending ripples of concern through the highest echelons of power.

All the rangers had found were peculiar footprints stamped deep in the earth.

These tracks are disturbingly deep, grumbled the Imperial ranger sergeant, Alyssum. And not a damn thing is missing—food provisions intact, even the barrels of beer and mead untouched. Just people and metal objects gone.

She turned towards her peer, an older, veteran ranger named Henri, who accompanied her. Compared to the old man’s hunched appearance, Alyssum stood tall with straight posture and an air of confidence.

It sure as hell wasn’t dwarves, drawled Henri, his eyes darting over Alyssum’s figure with an appreciative hunger that belied his years. They’re up to their ears in metal and would’ve nicked the booze. But what freakish creature leaves everything else but takes bodies and metal?

Alyssum shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. Bandits? Mercenaries? None of these dastards could’ve wreaked this amount of havoc… What are we up against?

Henri watched as Alyssum bent over in front of him, her form-fitting uniform pants accentuating every dip and curve of her body. Alyssum wasn’t oblivious to his gaze. Imagining his lustful stare on her was an unwelcome distraction in this world of chaos and bloodshed.

‘If he tries something, I will cut his fingers off,’ she thought.

They heard a horse whinnying behind them, followed by the familiar tapping of hooves.

Corporal Orton, welcome back.

Thank you. I’ve brought our new reinforcement with me. Private Gadremoon, this is Sergeant Alyssum, your superior in this team.

Ready for duty, Sarge! Private Gadremoon announced in a clear voice.

Alyssum noted that the private was quite small, almost petite, for a soldier. Her observations were interrupted as Orton spotted something in the sky. Sergeant! Your crow has returned. You’ve received a message from headquarters.

Alyssum looked up and saw a familiar dark bird circling above them. She whistled, and her personal message deliverer, a crow, dived and settled on her shoulder. Good girl, she praised.

Alyssum took the tightly rolled and sealed scroll from it. Unrolling and reading it, her expression grew tense. Finishing, she lowered her head, crumpling the message in her palm. Makadon has fallen… she murmured, noting the shocked expressions around her. It seems it met the same fate as this outpost at the hands of the same assailants.

But… but, Makadon is the second-largest city in Northern Eldhjarta! How is that possible? Henri asked, his brows furrowed in worry. I have relatives there, he added, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Alyssum lifted her head. The Voice of the Emperor has already dispatched the Royal Guard. We need to join them and witness the aftermath ourselves.

Within minutes, everyone was prepared. Okay, let’s go. We can’t afford to waste time, Alyssum commanded, urging her horse forward.

While seated in the saddle, she penned a return message to headquarters and attached it to the crow’s leg before sending it off.

We don’t deserve them; they’re so loyal, smart, and brave, Alyssum heard the new team member, Private Gadremoon, say, watching the crow disappear.

Couldn’t agree more, Alyssum smiled. Sending messages would be a damned pain for us regular non-magi folks without them.

Light bless the crows, innovative inventor weirdos, and their magnets, Private Gadremoon mused as they trekked toward the ravaged city, bracing themselves for what they might find amidst such dire news.

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Under Alyssum’s brisk pace, the lightly equipped rangers reached the scene before the Royal Guard. A chilling silence shrouded the area, with the ruins standing as silent witnesses to the horrors that had unfolded. Alyssum braced herself; amidst the desolation lay a grim task: uncovering secrets hidden in the debris and gathering information from survivors, now trembling witnesses to the catastrophe.

As they walked slowly through the outskirts of what was once been Makadon, Alyssum’s eyes scanned the scene methodically. A local villager, his face etched with fear, approached her cautiously.

They came at dawn, the villager’s voice trembled as he spoke. Those warriors… towering figures in black armor, carrying dark weapons that seemed to swallow light itself.

Alyssum listened intently. They attacked without warning?

The villager nodded, his eyes haunted. Yes… with every step they took, the earth shook. It… it scared us all. The field workers who had come too close, they… they were killed. Mercilessly.

And the city’s defenses? Alyssum asked, already dreading the answer.

Useless, the man whispered. Arrows, boiling oil—nothing fazed them. They broke through the portcullis like it was nothing.

Alyssum’s gaze hardened. And then they destroyed the city?

The villager’s eyes welled up with tears. Yes, everything and everyone… It was a tide of destruction. Nothing but ashes and embers left now.

Alyssum noticed the fear evident among the onlookers. Has word of what happened spread to the nearby villages?

Like a plague, the villager replied, his voice tense. Everyone’s terrified, packing up, fearing they’ll be next.

Thank you for sharing this, Alyssum said, her mind processing the implications. It’s important we understand the full scope of what happened here.

As the villager moved away, Corporal Orton approached Alyssum, leading an old man with nervous, darting eyes. Sergeant, this man’s got something to say about them attackers, Orton said.

Alyssum nodded, guiding the old man to sit. She offered him a waterskin, and he drank thirstily. T-Thanks, he breathed out, relief evident in his voice. Been hiding for two whole days, since I woke up…

Can you tell me what you saw? Alyssum asked, her voice soft but urgent, smiling to reassure him.

The old man’s voice was shaky as he began, Saw it with me own eyes, I did. Our blacksmith, Smith, a big strong fellow, he went right at one of those creatures…

Alyssum leaned in, her interest piqued. The invaders, you mean?

He nodded, his hands trembling. Yes, yes, them. Smith struck it squarely on the leg, made it buckle. Then he—his voice dropped to a whisper—smashed its head in. His eyes echoed the terror of his tale.

And then? Alyssum prompted gently, her brow furrowed in concern.

Its head… Smith got it good. He smashed it, I swear! It was as though an anvil had struck it… but then— the man gasped, his eyes wide with dread, It—it just recovered! Right there before my eyes!

The creature, it just stood back up! Twisted Smith’s wrist, tore his hand clean off. And then, I swear, its broken leg and head just… healed up. No blood, nothing. Just poor Smith’s hand there, still bleeding. I passed out right after that.

Alyssum’s expression softened. You’ve done well by telling us this. It’s important. Tears filled the old man’s eyes. Please, you’ve gotta stop ‘em! Smith, he didn’t make a sound, even with all that… He didn’t deserve that. All the deaths… You’ve gotta do something.

We shall do our best. Alyssum held the old man's hand, we seek those bastards and rain down imperial iron on them, deal?

The old man shook and nodded, tears running down his cheeks. Alyssum looked at one of the Royal Guards who took the man aside. Make sure he gets something to eat, Alyssum commanded. The soldier escorted the old man away, and Alyssum turned to her team. Check everything, all places. Look for anything out of the ordinary. Any clues.

As they combed the area, Alyssum uncovered a chilling discovery. Just like at the Uriel outpost, all people and metal objects had vanished. But this time, she found something else—a broken tip of a dark weapon. It was a tangible piece of the horror the beggar had described, a fragment of weaponry so rigid that it could slice through metal.

Alyssum carefully placed the broken glaive piece into her pouch, her fingers brushing against the alchemist’s emblem that had stopped it. Orton, look at this, she murmured, holding out the metallic shard. This item broke the tip of the assailant’s weapon. It must be unbelievably rigid.

Orton leaned in, his brow furrowing. Interesting. Take it with you.

They were abruptly interrupted by an unexpected voice, rough and taunting, slicing through the silence. Well, well, what do we have here?

Alyssum tensed, instinctively reaching for her weapon. She exchanged a quick, alert glance with Orton. ‘Stay sharp,’ her gaze warned.

Turning sharply, Alyssum and her three companions were met with the sight of eight ragged men emerging from the shadows. Their intentions were clear from their disheveled appearances and greedy gazes.

Looters, Alyssum hissed, the word laced with disdain. Inwardly, she scoffed at their audacity. ‘Thinking us easy prey, fools,’ she thought, her hand instinctively moving to her weapon.

Give us your gear, and perhaps we’ll let you go, the man, apparently the spokesman of the looters, demanded.

Rangers, prepare for battle, Alyssum commanded. The man demanding their gear frowned and pulled out his rusty but menacing-looking sword.

The rangers’ boots thudded against the broken cobblestones as they sprinted into action, weapons drawn. Alyssum’s blade gleamed in the dim light as she slashed at the looters, her movements quick and lethal. A sharp clang echoed as metal clashed with metal, sending sparks flying through the air.

One of the looters lunged towards Alyssum, a crude knife glinting in his hand. With a swift sidestep, she dodged his attack and countered with a vicious strike to his midsection. The looter doubled over in pain, gasping for breath.

Around her, the other rangers engaged in their own battles, fists flying and blades flashing in a chaotic dance of violence. Grunts and curses filled the air as they fought off the desperate thieves.

Alyssum kept a close watch on Gadremoon to see if she was keeping up with the pace. Her movements were precise and swift, her decisions sharp — 'clearly skilled and intelligent,' Alyssum noted.

Three enemies lay dead on the blood-soaked ground as Alyssum’s voice cut through the fray, commanding and cold as steel. Surrender now, or face the consequences.

The remaining looters hesitated, fear flickering in their eyes. They were clearly outmatched. As the dust settled and the last echoes of adrenaline faded, the air grew heavy with the scent of sweat and blood, each breath a stark reminder of the violence just quelled.

With reluctant grunts, the men dropped their weapons. On the ground, hands on your heads! Alyssum commanded, her tone brooking no argument. She watched as the men reluctantly obeyed, their movements slow and deliberate. Her team moved in, swiftly and efficiently securing them for interrogation.

Alyssum addressed her team. Gather these fools and hand them over to the Royal Guard, she commanded. Let the Guard determine their fate. She gestured toward the horizon, where a group of knights was swiftly approaching, their arrival marked by a billowing cloud of dust.

Yet as Alyssum watched, a stark reality unfolded. The Royal Guard, adhering to martial law, showed no leniency. Finding no useful information among the looters, they meted out swift and ruthless justice, executing them on the spot. It was a stark, unflinching reminder of the brutal efficiency of wartime law.

Alyssum observed the recruit Gadremoon as the Royal Guard lined up the looters for execution, a subtle change came over her. Her body tensed, a slight flinch rippling through her, and her hands trembled momentarily by her sides. The finality of fieldwork seemed to weigh heavily on her, a stark contrast to the controlled environment of training.

‘I don’t favor unnecessary violence either,’ Alyssum found herself reflecting, 'but we must set a stern example to deter others with similar ideas. Now, let's solve this case.' She focused, a nagging inkling bothering her.

Further from the scene, another discovery caught Alyssum’s interest. The ground in a nearby area showed signs of recent disturbance—patches of earth appeared to have been dug up and then hastily refilled. This anomaly, against the backdrop of the recent attacks, deepened the mystery.

Looking around, Alyssum felt a surge of worry. Something significant was unfolding, and the clues were hidden, both literally and figuratively. She knew they had to dig deeper to uncover the truth behind these mysterious occurrences.

What’s on your mind, Sarge? Private Gadremoon asked, her eyes wide with eagerness.

With a quiet sigh, Alyssum confessed, I’m trying to figure out what happened here.

She paced back and forth, her brow furrowed in deep thought. Finally, she halted and turned to face Gadremoon, who stood attentively nearby.

These spots look like someone was searching for something underground, Gadremoon observed, glancing around the area. She then pointed to her head and the metallic helmet on it, Can I take this off now, for a while? It's hot as hell.

Alyssum cocked her head, her mind churning with thoughts. This case is a real pain in the ass. I’m usually quick on the uptake, but this one… Her gaze, half-lidded and mysterious, fell on Gadremoon struggling with the straps of her headpiece, and she smirked. You’re wet behind the ears, but let’s see if we can crack this nut.

Gadremoon responded with a joyous smile. Sure, Sarge, she said in a perky tone, lifting the helmet off and running her fingers through her boy-cut brown hair.

Alyssum’s heart skipped a beat as she took in Gadremoon’s wide smile, doe-like eyes, and beautiful features.

Oh, yes… she gathered her thoughts, Private Gadremoon, Alyssum said, her voice laced with concern, I’ve been mulling over these recent attacks. They’re unlike anything we’ve seen before, aren’t they?

Gadremoon nodded, his expression serious. I wouldn’t know, Sarge. I just joined.

Alyssum sighed, running a hand through her hair, realizing she was unconsciously mimicking Gadremoon's gesture from earlier. Well, humor me—I can’t shake this feeling… It’s as if I can smell the blood in the air, a sense of impending doom. We’ve hit dead ends at every turn. It’s frustrating.

Gadremoon shifted his weight, sharing in her frustration. Have the trails gone too cold, Sarge?

Alyssum’s